Later, after Rev. Cameron had come and gone without seeing her, she suddenly opened her eyes and whispered, "mother, I have been thinking; would you be happier in knowing that I'm not afraid to die?" The good old woman tightened her grasp on the white hand she held, and made no other answer but to bow her gray head and press her lips to the forehead of the girl. "I know you would; and I'll tell you." "I lived--" She was interrupted by a low knock at the door and a sweet voice calling gently: "May I come in, Mother Gray?" It was Amy, who had come at Cameron's request. The sufferer half rose in her bed. "Who is it?" she gasped. "I--I--know that voice." "There, there, dearie," returned the nurse, gently pushing her back on the pillows. "There, there, lie down again; it's only Miss Amy." "Yes, come in," she called; and Miss Goodrich softly pushed open the door and entered. "I thought perhaps I could help you, Mother Gray," she said, as she removed her hat and arranged a beautiful bunch of flowers on a little stand in the center of the room. Then turning to the sufferer, she was about to speak again when she paused and her face grew as white as the colorless face upon the pillow. The wide eyes of the dying girl stared back at her in doubting wonder, while the trembling lips tried to whisper her name. The next instant, Amy had thrown herself on her knees, her arms about the wasted form upon the bed. "Oh Kate; Kate;" she cried. "How did this happen? How came you here?" It was Kate Cushman, from Oak Springs Farm. Mother Gray quickly recovered from her surprise, and with the instinct of a true nurse, calmed Amy and soothed the patient. "There, there, my dears," she said. "God is good--God is good. Let us thank Him that He has brought you together. You must be brave and strong, Miss Amy. This poor dear needs our help. Yes, yes, dear, be brave and strong." Amy controlled herself with an effort, and rising from her knees, sat down on the edge of the bed, still holding Kate's hand, while she assisted Mother Gray to soothe her. When she grew more quiet, Amy said, "We must send for your father and mother at once; they can--" "No, no, you must not--you shall not--they do not know--in mercy, don't tell them--it would kill them. Promise; oh promise me you will never tell them how I died. In pity for them, promise me." Mother Gray bowed her gray head, while the tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks. "Yes, yes, dearie, we'll promise. It's better that they do not know until it's all over; and they need never know all." And whispering to Amy, she added, "The poor child can't last but a little longer." Reassured, the sufferer sank back again with a long sigh, and closed her eyes wearily, but a moment later, opened them once more to look at Amy.